


New Lines on the Map

by thejadedidealist



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejadedidealist/pseuds/thejadedidealist
Summary: "The silver hair. The wrinkles. The strange ache in one of his knees lately. He wasn’t falling—he was aging. And so was Crowley."More than ten years have passed since the would-be apocalypse. Everything changes when suddenly, Crowley and Aziraphale's vessels begin to show some worrying changes.





	1. Chapter 1

            It was a decade or so after their clever little switcheroo that Aziraphale first noticed it. Right over his ear, nestled in one of those perfect blonde curls, was a single silver hair. He plucked it out without hesitation and held it up to his face, examining it. Nothing at all unusual about it, save the color. Not quite white, but not quite gray, either. A sort of dull colorless shade just a fraction darker than the rest.

            With a confused sort of frown, he flicked it into the air, disintegrating it with a snap of his fingers before it could float to the ground. Odd, certainly, but nothing to be concerned about. Not yet, at least.

* * *

 

            A month later, there was another. Then over the course of the year, out sprang five more, ten more, two dozen more. He plucked out every one, each making him more nervous than the last. Why was his hair changing color? He’d never heard of such a thing before—an angel’s hair darkening. The only similar thing he could think of was wings, but those turned black all at once in a flash of hellish fire, not one by one like this.

            Still, the idea plagued him.

            Was he falling?

            It wasn’t the falling itself that scared him. He wasn’t afraid of becoming a demon; he was barely an angel anymore, after all. What difference would it make? No, what scared him was the look he’d find on Crowley’s face—the utter self-loathing and disappointment he knew would creep into those snakelike eyes. Crowley would blame himself for making him fall, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to see that. It wasn’t his fault, after all. Aziraphale suspected he’d been careening toward this end for a long time now. Ever since he gave away his sword, really. Regardless of Crowley’s influence, he would have ended up here. He knew, however, that he’d never be able to convince Crowley of that, not when the demon seemed so desperate to condemn himself at every turn.

            But that was only if he was actually falling. And there was nothing yet to suggest that, nothing but the handful of steadily darkening strands he’d zapped out of existence. He hoped there would be nothing more than that. A few dark hairs were easily concealed, easily taken care of before Crowley ever noticed them. If he was indeed falling, the other signs, he knew, wouldn’t be so easy to hide.

* * *

 

            It was six months later when Crowley dropped into conversation the casual announcement that he’d found a white hair on his own head that morning. Aziraphale had nearly choked on his cocoa. Crowley was trying to sound nonchalant about the matter, but after six thousand years Aziraphale was familiar enough with the demon to know he was unnerved.

            “Be funny if I was turning into you, eh?” Crowley teased, flicking one of Aziraphale’s white-blonde curls. The joke was an attempt at lightheartedness, but it made Aziraphale wonder. If he was falling, could Crowley be…rising? Was that possible? Could such a transformation go both ways?

            Still, Aziraphale kept his mouth shut about his own follicular woes. Better not to burden Crowley, at least until he knew what it meant. He had learned over the millennia how easy it was to send the demon into a spiral of worry—a spiral that usually ended with him doing something stupidly self-destructive, like sleeping for a century or drinking for weeks on end. No, best to keep Crowley in the dark. He seemed to like things better that way, anyhow.

* * *

 

            A few month later, the two of them were sitting across from each other at a bar, celebrating the anniversary of the end of the world that they had so haphazardly avoided. Crowley had some godawful concoction in front of him that smelled of cinnamon and whiskey and…pineapple? Aziraphale’s own drink was a strawberry margherita, complete with salted rim and little umbrella.

            Together they drank and talked and laughed, getting more and more drunk as the night went on. Crowley, sufficiently inebriated at this point, said something particularly uncouth—Aziraphale couldn’t remember exactly what, afterwards—and they both lit up in a fit of laughter. Other patrons looked over at them in drunken curiosity, but the angel and the demon paid them no mind.

            At last the two of them caught their breath, and Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze behind those conspicuous glasses, beaming contentedly.

            “Do that again,” Crowley slurred when Aziraphale looked away to take another sip of his drink. At the distraction, Aziraphale almost dumped the contents all over his lap.

            “Do what?” he responded, quickly righting his teetering glass.

            “Smile.”

            Aziraphale did so without even meaning to, an instantaneous blush spreading itself across his pale cheeks. Crowley leaned unsteadily forward on his elbows, and at this angle Aziraphale could see the cluster of white hairs at the demon’s temples that he’d stopped trying to pluck out.

            “Well, that’s new,” Crowley muttered.

            Aziraphale blinked, his smile falling. “What? What’s new?” His muddled thoughts went immediately to the silver hairs he’d still been keeping secret, wondering if one had escaped his notice.

            “That line. There.” Crowley jabbed a wobbling finger into Aziraphale’s face, right in the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale flinched back, rubbing his cheek.

            “What line?” he asked, searching for a reflective surface. He picked up the metallic napkin holder and examined his face. “I don’t see any line.”

            “You have to smile, angel,” Crowley reminded him drunkenly. He did, and then he saw it. A tiny crease at the edge of his mouth, pointing down from his bottom lip.

            “Well—th-that’s always been there!” Aziraphale spluttered, setting the napkin holder down perhaps a bit harsher than he’d meant to.

            “Nuh-uh,” Crowley insisted. “I know that face, angel. I’ve known it for six thousand years, and that line—” he thrust his finger toward Aziraphale’s jaw once again, “is new.”

            Aziraphale’s altered mind spun with the implications of this fact. Now that he was thinking about it, there was a line on Crowley’s face, too. Right between his brows, deepening as the demon looked at him with concern.

            A lightbulb went off in Aziraphale’s mind, the effects of the alcohol evaporating in one clarifying moment. The many margheritas he’d drank rushed back into the pitcher, their various flavors and colors muddling into an unappetizing sort of brown. Concerned, Crowley followed suit a moment later, his very tall glass overflowing.

            “What is it?” the demon asked, instantly on alert having seen the angel’s alarm. But Aziraphale didn’t answer. He was still struggling to come to grips with the realization he’d just made.

            The silver hair. The wrinkles. The strange ache in one of his knees lately. He wasn’t falling—he was aging. And so was Crowley.

            Crowley seemed to come to the same conclusion a moment later, because even behind his glasses Aziraphale could see his snake-eye pupils widen.

            “Well, shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

            The next day or so was spent in shell-shocked silence as the two of them tried to comprehend their position. Aging. Never had an angel—fallen or otherwise—experienced aging before. It was entirely new.

            Aziraphale sat with his head in his hands at the counter of Crowley’s flat while the demon paced restlessly behind him. His mind raced through the possibilities, trying to fit them like puzzle pieces into their new reality. Was it a punishment? God’s last laugh at them for foiling Her great plan? Or could it be something as simple as their bodies failing? After all, the would-be apocalypse was more than ten years past; perhaps these bodies—however divine or diabolical in origin—had finally reached the end of their intended lifespan. Perhaps it was merely a side effect of their time on earth, or their abandonment of their respective organizations in favor of the human world and all its pleasures.

            Every time he reached the end of one possible thread, another surged up to take its place, and before Aziraphale knew it, his thoughts were a tangled knot of worry and fear. There was no way of knowing why it was happening. Not without asking their respective sides. And he didn’t think Heaven or Hell would be particularly thrilled to receive questions from either one of them. The fact was that it didn’t really matter why. There was no doubt that it was, in fact, happening. And the many implications of that were things Aziraphale had only begun to consider.

            The very worst-case scenario, of course, would be that they had been made mortal. These bodies might be able to die now—and what would that mean for whatever came next? Would the two of them die along with their physical forms, or reappear, discorporated, in their respective headquarters? What it they fell ill or got injured? Would that be enough to kill them, now? Would they succumb to age and senility, like the many millions of humans they’d outlived? The possibilities were endless, and endlessly terrifying.

            “Holy water,” Crowley announced from behind him, stopping his pacing so quickly he nearly stumbled. Aziraphale turned over one shoulder, the worry on his face giving way to utter panic and anger.

            _“No,_ Crowley. For the last time—”

            “I’m not going to dunk myself in it, you divine dumbass. I have an idea.”

            Aziraphale turned the rest of the way around to meet the demon’s eyes, surprised to see that he’d taken off those ever-present glasses. His usually slitted pupils were wide and manic.

            “I want to test something…a hair, or a fingernail, something small like that. Drop it in the water and see if it…” he paused, searching for the word. “Sizzles.”

            Aziraphale considered this. It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. It might tell them something about what was happened to them.

            “And it won’t affect the rest of you?” he asked, mulling it over.

            “No,” Crowley confirmed. “Well, it shouldn’t” he amended.

            Aziraphale drew back, the uncertainty in the statement unsettling him. Then again, there was an awful lot of _shouldn’t_ going around at the moment. They _shouldn’t_ even be having to consider this. But they were, and their options were limited as far as understanding their predicament. With a sigh, Aziraphale gave the demon a tight nod. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt.

* * *

 

            An hour later, Aziraphale had returned from a local church with two small vials of holy water. He’d wanted to get it from a reliable source, since he was no longer confident in his own ability to bless it. Crowley had clearly not appreciated the wait, as when Aziraphale entered, he was sitting on the ceiling, drumming his fingers relentlessly on the plaster. He dropped to the ground the moment the angel returned, landing on his feet with unsettling, cat-like ease. _Well, he hasn’t lost that, at least,_ Aziraphale thought.

            Careful not to spill a drop, Crowley took the vials from him and opened one, sniffing it. He gagged.

            “That’s a good sign,” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley gave a half-hearted nod before producing from somewhere—a pocket, the angel suspected—a pinch of his own hair. All white, Aziraphale noticed.

            “Thought these might do something interesting,” Crowley explained, giving a shrug. With an unnecessarily dramatic flick of his wrist, he dropped the pale strands into the clear water.

            There was a moment of oppressive anticipation; neither of them breathed, neither of them moved a muscle or made a sound. The vial was silent as well. No flames or spray of acrid sludge, just a handful of hairs sitting gently on the top of the water. As they watched, the strands slowly soaked through and sank into the liquid. Nothing happened.

            “I don’t like that,” Crowley muttered, leaning away from the caustic substance. “I don’t like that at all.”

            “Try a red one,” Aziraphale suggested, but the demon was already reaching up and plucking out another few hairs. More carefully, this time, he dropped them into the vial and snatched his hand back, fearing a more volatile reaction. There was a moment of this round, too, where the hairs merely floated on the surface. But then a faint hissing sound erupted from the glass, like the sound of steak hitting a hot pan. The hairs dissolved, writhing and crumpling in on themselves like salted snails. Nowhere near as dramatic as what ought to have happened, but at least it was something.

            “Well, what does that mean?” Aziraphale wondered aloud, watching the now stilled liquid.

            Crowley sighed, scratching the back of his head thoughtfully. “Not a bloody clue.”

* * *

 

            The week that followed was filled with similar such tests. Crowley ended up being the guinea pig for most of them. Not out of any self-sacrificing desire, but due to the simple fact that it was easier to find blessed objects than cursed ones. No use hunting down a voodoo doll for Aziraphale when a five quid crucifix would do Crowley just fine. They visited consecrated ground, observing how long Crowley could stand still before hopping. They timed Crowley’s shift into snake form and back—noting no difference in the time it took, but the redness on Crowley’s face was enough for Aziraphale to conclude it had taken far more effort than usual. They performed minor miracles left and right; opening wounds and healing them closed, disappearing odds and ends, fixing broken knickknacks, doing everything they could to explore the limits of their powers.

            The difference was slight. Almost imperceptible. But it was there. And that was frightening.

* * *

 

            Months later, Aziraphale was trying and failing to concentrate on the book open in his lap, as a disturbing thought chased itself through his head. Crowley was in the kitchen, fussing over something that smelled equal parts delicious and terribly burned. He had seemed to acquire Aziraphale’s taste for human food, recently, and this was only the latest in his numerous culinary experiments. Eventually the demon let out a string of curses and joined Aziraphale, draping himself over the back of the sofa.

            “We’re ordering take-out,” he announced, brushing flour off his shirt. “Thai or Italian?”

            Aziraphale hummed noncommittally, too preoccupied to even grasp the question. Crowley leaned further over the back of the couch, trying to catch his distant gaze.

            “Angel?”

            “What did heaven smell like, Crowley?” He hadn’t really meant to ask the question. He’d meant to say “Thai food” or “whatever you feel like, dear” or something of that nature, but instead out blurted the troubling thought that had been spinning through his mind all morning.

            The demon looked taken aback. “What on earth’s that got to do with what we’re having for dinner?”

            Aziraphale sighed irritatedly. “Nothing at all,” he snapped. “Just answer the question, Crowley.”

            Crowley’s expression went from confusion to alarm at the angel’s uncharacteristic tone, but Aziraphale refused to meet his eyes.

            “I…I can’t remember,” he admitted. “I mean, I was there for all of ten minutes. And it wasn’t exactly on the forefront of my mind at the time. Why are you asking me this?” he asked.

            “Because I don’t remember, either,” Aziraphale confessed. It was true. As distinctive as the smell had been, Aziraphale could no longer name nor recall it. Floral, certainly. Lavender? Rosemary? No matter how hard he wracked his brain, the answer did not come. Crowley did not seem to understand the implications of it until moments later, when he sunk in on himself as if he’d been punched.

            “Now that you mention it,” he muttered. “I don’t remember Hell all that clearly, either.”

            Aziraphale met his eyes, comforted to know he was not alone in his forgetfulness, but afraid of what it might mean for both of them. First their youth, then their powers, and now their memories. What would be stolen from them next? 


	3. Chapter 3

         There was no question that Aziraphale had always been the most human of all the angels. Anything otherwise would have been a statistical improbability—he’d spent more time among them than all his brethren combined; he was bound to pick up a thing or two. But there was something more than simply proximity that linked him to humanity, something the other angels lacked entirely: A penchant for worldly pleasures. Aziraphale couldn’t fathom why—aside from the fact that they were all stuck-up sycophants—the others had all been so opposed to the idea of a little fun now and again. His taste for the material was just another smudge on the already blurred line between human and heavenly, leaving Aziraphale unsure on which side he stood.

         As familiar as he was with the humans and their ways, some things still surprised him about this quasi-mortal form. Food, for instance, became not only a pleasure, but a necessity. Aziraphale found himself _needing_ to eat for the first time in six-thousand years, and that hunger had a habit of catching up with him in the most inconvenient places. On more than one occasion, he had been forced to resort to whatever rubbish was available, eating things he would never have even considered as an angel. He’d sworn to Crowley that he could feel the grease of his first fast food hamburger in the back of his throat for weeks. Eventually he’d wisened up and began carrying snacks, but not before several unfortunate incidents.

         Crowley didn’t have too much more trouble. He’d been experimenting with human food anyway, of late, and found he had a taste for it. His palate was quite adventurous, more so even that Aziraphale’s, which adamantly preferred more traditionally delicious foods. Crowley did, however, express distaste for the constant maintenance that came with eating—the lightheadedness that overtook him if he missed a meal, the indigestion if he overindulged, the hangovers he could no longer do away with in the blink of an eye. He was not a being used to consequences, and had complained of such to Aziraphale more than a few times. But between Aziraphale’s experience and Crowley’s curiosity, they managed to keep themselves and each other fed. It was a change, but they were navigating it together, and Aziraphale supposed that was all they could really hope for, anymore.

* * *

 

         Not much later, Aziraphale began to notice an inexplicable irritability in himself. He was short with his clients and Crowley alike, and even the slightest inconvenience seemed apocalyptic. He felt weak and shaky, and wondered if he was encountering his first physical illness when Crowley finally came up to him one afternoon, after several days of this.

         “I think you might need a nap, Angel.”

         Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. Sleep. Somehow, even in all his years among the humans, he had never developed a taste for sleep. Never even attempted it, really. But the moment the words were out of Crowley’s mouth, it was as if his body suddenly recognized its affliction. Every fiber of his being cried out in exhaustion, and it almost seemed that he wouldn’t make it to a soft surface before giving in.

         But while Crowley was prone to little catnaps in the sun—or sleeping through the occasional century—Aziraphale found the concept simply…frightening. So many thousands of years of bending rules, of never quite being able to let his guard down, had left their mark.

         Aziraphale lay down on the little sofa in his office and unfolded the blanket that had rested on the arm—almost entirely unused—for more than a decade. The fabric underneath was a different color, unfaded and untouched by dirt.

         “You get some rest,” Crowley instructed. “I’ll take care of the shop.”

         The comment was of little comfort. Not because he didn’t trust Crowley’s ability to run the shop. He didn’t, of course, but he doubted the other man would be able to burn the place down in a few hours. Although, Aziraphale remembered, it had taken less than that last time. No, Crowley’s presence nearby was enough assurance alone, and Aziraphale knew it should have put him at ease.

         But it didn’t.

         If anything, the fact that the two of them were together made him even more nervous. He had tried to suppress it, but invariably every time he allowed his mind to wander, Aziraphale found himself pondering what Heaven or Hell would do if either ever realized what they’d done. The fear that they’d suddenly get snatched up or smote out of existence had lurked in the back of his mind for the last decade and a half, and the idea of losing himself to the vulnerability of sleep was not making it any easier to ignore. Because if somehow they found Aziraphale, now that this new, mortal body could not stay on constant alert, they would also find Crowley. And that was a terrifying thought.

         Not that he could do much to stop the theoretical smiting, even if he was awake. He was all but powerless these days, and anything more than a minor miracle left him with a splitting headache and cold sweats for hours afterward.

         Crowley popped his head in the door what seemed at once like an eternity and a millisecond later. Guiltily, Aziraphale shut his eyes and tried to appear comatose, but Crowley had already seen Aziraphale’s gaze scanning across the ceiling, as if he could see the legions of heaven there, and plan how to evade them.

         “You’re going to have to sleep sooner or later, Angel.”

         The name was not really accurate, anymore, but it had long ago surpassed its original meaning between the two of them.

         “I’m trying,” he replied melancholily, letting his eyes fall open.

         “I shooed off some customers a while ago,” Crowley informed him. “They were eyeing your Ashmole, which I don’t expect you’d appreciate.”

         Aziraphale perked up at that, momentarily forgetting his goal of sleep.

         “Oh?”

         Crowley nodded, opening the door wider and sprawling himself against the frame. “Oh yes. They were quite hungry for it. Don’t worry, though—I spun up some tale about its previous ownership that drastically lowered its authenticity, and they seemed to lose interest after that.”

         Aziraphale nodded gratefully, settling back down onto the cushions. “Good. Anyone else?”

         “A couple wandered in thinking this was the shop next door, but they quickly realized their mistake,” Crowley answered. “Nothing more than that.”

         Aziraphale nodded again, but was arrested mid-gesture by a massive yawn.

         Crowley took that as his cue to leave. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he said, stepping back out of the doorframe.

         “No—” Aziraphale blurted, his anxiety escaping him. Crowley stopped and reopened the door a sliver, peering at him curiously through the crack. Aziraphale struggled with what to say for a moment, before finally settling on, “Stay?”

         He didn’t need to say more than that. Crowley held up a finger and disappeared into the shop, and Aziraphale heard the familiar sound of the open sign turning over. Then he returned, slithering through the doorframe and closing it behind him with a gentle _click_. Aziraphale’s sleepy yet vigilant gaze tracked him as he pulled the office chair away from the desk, wheeling it over to the end of the sofa. Crowley lowered himself into it casually.

         “You’re not going to make me rock you and sing lullabies, are you?” he asked drolly.

         Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then let them drift closed as he returned to his mission of sleep. He could hear Crowley’s breathing along with the ticking of the old-fashioned clock on the desk, and found that the two sounds settled into a comfortable rhythm. His surroundings grew hazier and hazier around him, losing shape and form to the unfamiliar surrealism at the edge of sleep. The clock’s persistent ticking distorted into footsteps on a bright white tile floor; the blanket wrapped around him slowly morphed into binding chains; the sound of breathing warped into the whoosh of igniting flames.

         Aziraphale jolted forward, eyes flying open as he sucked in a gasping breath. Crowley was there in an instant, on his knees before the sofa, guiding Aziraphale’s gaze to his.

         “It wasn’t real. Aziraphale, look at me. It wasn’t real.”

Aziraphale’s panicked eyes found Crowley’s, and immediately began to well with tears of relief. He threw himself onto the other man’s shoulder, heaving great gasping breaths as he sobbed for the first time in centuries. Crowley just held him, firmly and steadily, until he had cried himself out.

* * *

         Aziraphale woke eleven hours later. Crowley still sat on the floor, propped against the couch. His head and one arm rested on the cushion, and from the crook of his elbow he let out an occasional snore. Aziraphale took all this in and emitted a deep sigh—not quite a sigh of relief, but a sigh of...acceptance. Though discomforting, he supposed could get used to this strange vulnerability. He didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter, really. And perhaps it wasn’t as dangerous as he’d feared; after all, they’d been unconscious for nearly half a day, according to the desk clock, and neither one of them had been struck down in their sleep. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about.

         Or perhaps, he mused, the legions of Heaven and Hell were simply biding their time, lulling them into false security. Aziraphale shivered.

         Crowley began to stir at that. He raised his tousled head from the pillow of his bicep and blinked open naked yellow eyes, which roved curiously around the room a moment before he recalled where he was. Those wandering eyes found their way to Aziraphale’s, and paused, assessing him. Aziraphale feared seeing disappointment or pity in Crowley’s gaze, but it held only concern, along with that stifled hint of warmth he only ever turned toward Aziraphale.

         The moment was interrupted by Crowley’s loudly growling stomach. They both jumped—so loud and abrupt was the sound—and then suddenly they were laughing, the dregs of sleep and nightmares sloughing off them like shed skin.

         “Fancy some—” Aziraphale paused, sending a glance over to the clock, “—dinner?”

         Crowley’s lips quirked up in a smile, then parted as he let out a long yawn and stretched. He unfolded himself from his awkward position and climbed to his feet, extending a hand to Aziraphale, who took it and hauled himself up as well. When they were both standing, Crowley gestured Aziraphale before him through the door.

         “My treat.”

         Sleep was easier for him, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...started to get away from me. In a good way. Definitely no longer going to be only a three chapter work, but hopefully should top out around five. I just found too much to explore between where we are and where I'm planning to take us. Hope you enjoy


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